


What's Yours is Mine

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Fingering, Exhibitionism, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism, yay!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 07:34:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1091273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has a private nightly routine in his bedroom, but this night, John decides to watch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's Yours is Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KrisKenshin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisKenshin/gifts).



> I bombarded KrisKenshin's askbox with about 20 asks to get this fic out, so here it is in one place.
> 
> This is unbeta'd so if you catch any mistakes, let me know! <3

Sherlock closed his bedroom door and quickly unbuttoned and pulled off his deep violet shirt. He appeared to be in a desperate rush, breathing a sigh of relief as he sat on the edge of his bed and began to palm himself through his trousers. Usually at this time of night, John never bothered him, never checked in on him. Even though Sherlock never explicitly stated it, there was a mutual understanding of what was going on when Sherlock closed the door to his bedroom.

He felt warm pressure pushing up against his hand, his trousers growing tighter, creating a mound for him to press his palm to. He took his time though. He liked to take his time, make it last.

That’s when the door opened, and John strolled in, entirely clothed, and sat on a chair by the wall in front of Sherlock's bed.  

Sherlock immediately stopped what he was doing and looked shyly to John. "May I have some privacy?" he asked. But John simply rooted himself to the spot and smiled, something devious rooted deep behind it all.

“I’m not leaving,” he said. “Go ahead. Keep it up. Don’t let me stop you.”

Sherlock apprehensively continued to palm the growing bulge in his trousers.

 

Silent as he tried to be, as much as he tried to act like he wasn't enjoying it, he couldn't help the grunts that escaped him. He spread his legs and re positioned his hand so that he was massaging himself between his thighs. His trousers were uncomfortably tight, and his cock was begging to be freed, hot and throbbing inside all of that fabric. "Please," he begged. His muscles were straining with want, his fingertips rolling over his balls, his palm pressing over his cock. A bit of sweat was forming on his forehead and behind his ears.

 "You’ve already started," said John, "so what does it matter if you finish? Besides I'm dying to see what you do to yourself with those long fingers." Sherlock closed his eyes and hunched his back as a rush of ice passed through his skin. "Fine," he said through gritted teeth. "Just this once."

"Good," said John. "Just as you normally do. Go on."

Sherlock unbuttoned his trousers. Immediately he felt some of the tightness subside.

"Why is this fascinating to you?" he asked.

 Sherlock’s unbuttoned trousers were such a tease to John, especially as he leaned back, making the bulge more prominent.

 "You don't realize how attractive you are, do you?" asked John. Sherlock looked down, a tiny grin curling up on his lips, and disappearing just as quickly.

"Please," John prodded, "Continue."

Sherlock sighed and pushed down his trousers, revealing his size beneath dark boxer briefs.

“Bloody Hell," blurted John under his breath. Sherlock shot him a look.

"Sorry,” said John. “I won't talk. Go ahead."

 Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I don’t know why we’re doing this,” he said as he pushed down his pants, his cock bobbing about once it was free. John's jaw dropped momentarily, but then he pursed his lips and held his tongue. He’s never seen such a perfect cock.

 Sherlock began by lightly brushing his cold fingertips up his balls, then closing that same hand around the shaft. He looked up at John for approval, and John nodded. This could be very good indeed.

Sherlock worked his hand up and down, slowly gliding it over his skin at first, but soon taking himself in full and pulling. He tried to be slow and act unenthusiastic, but the longer he went, the faster his heart raced, and the faster he wanted to move his arm. He felt the weight of John's stare, and it was torture for him to control himself, pressure on both ends, one to speed up, the other to take it slow, and his hand unwittingly moved faster, faster, his entire body unnaturally tense.

"Sherlock," called John. But Sherlock was too concentrated on himself to hear. "Sherlock," he repeated. Nothing. "Sherlock, hang on!" Sherlock's hand slowed to a halt, but kept it closed over his prick.

"Is this not what you wanted?" he asked, clearly agitated.

"No, well yes," said John, "but you're acting… odd." 

 Sherlock looked grumpily away.

 "Just relax. Delete my presence," John suggested. So Sherlock rolled his eyes, again, and turned around, now on his hands and knees, arse in John's full view.

"Damn," commented John. Sherlock's legs were parted just enough so that he could see his balls and more importantly, his luscious arse.

"You promised you wouldn't talk," Sherlock reprimanded.

"Sorry," said John.

Sherlock exhaled smoothly and imagined himself as the only person in the room. No John. It was just Sherlock, all on his own. Then he imagined John again, but this time, naked, on the bed with him, and he wrapped his fingers around himself and imagined John's mouth there instead.

He began with smooth, languid strokes, each one sending a thick pump of warmth through his veins. With his free hand, he pushed down his trousers, which were still up over his thighs. Each stroke made him more sensitive, and his body wanted, _needed_ more. His eyes were comfortably closed, his breathing steady, and the world around him gone. The only image now, was John, his valleys of golden skin beneath him, silver dog tags chiming as their bodies moved in rhythm. Sherlock subconsciously rolled his hips, and John shifted when the bed began to creak.

His rolling hips, trousers down to knees, the soft, and slow moans rolling from his throat had John rock hard in moments. He pulled out his cock and began stroking it lightly, just to take off the edge. He could feel himself sweating already. There was something so forbidden about this that made it even sexier; The fact that Sherlock probably wasn't even aware of John's presence anymore, as if John was there in secret, invading, watching Sherlock Holmes at his most intimate of deeds. So wrong, yet so right.

Sherlock didn't realize he was moaning, and he had, in fact, forgotten about John's presence. He’d escaped now into a different world, a world of no material, no thoughts, only pleasure. This was a routine experience for him, but accustomed to it as he was, there was something, quite possibly the knowledge of John's presence tucked deep away in the back of his mind, that amplified his experience, sending him deeper than ever into the heaven of his own touch.

It was as if his body worked on its own now, his free hand finding the perfect angle to push a finger into his hole. He curled it around to open himself up, and dropped his head as he dug deeper and another finger found its way in. He had such astounding control over his own body, over his breathing, over the way he stroked himself, the way his fingers worked in his arsehole.

The sweat glistened on his arched back, and his breath was coarse and sounding shakier each passing moment. John lacked that kind of control, spreading his legs, stroking faster, but he did have enough control not to pull his eyes away from the beauty before him.

Sherlock pictured John hollowing out his cheeks and sucking him as if he were a child trying to drain every last drop of milk from a bottle. He tightened his grip and tugged harder as a heavy, full moan drilled its way out of his throat and seemed to shoot right into John's cock. Nothing, not even the tight heat of a woman's vagina, had ever made John so hard in his life, and he lost all control, hunching over himself and stroking outwards, gritting his teeth to avoid making any obvious noises.

But John, unlike Sherlock, wasn't trying to pleasure himself, he simply needed to get off. Sherlock was always stunning beneath his clothing, but on the bed like this, every detail exposed, every reaction, every sound, was too much.

 It was clear from the way Sherlock moved his fingers, that he was searching for his prostate, possibly as his grand finale. His muscles flexed, the lines defined in the dimly lit room, and John's orgasm hit suddenly, like a tsunami flooding every limb as he came.

It shot straight forward in two, three pulses, his heart racing, chest heaving as he begged for oxygen. He pressed his fingers to his brow, needing a moment to catch himself, but seeing as Sherlock was getting close, he knew he couldn’t have that moment. Not yet, so he put his hand over his beating heart and concentrated on the sight ahead.

Sherlock's arm worked slowly yet effectively over his cock, but his other hand had slowed to only very small, discreet movements.

Sherlock liked to tease himself and savor the anticipation, so it was no wonder that that was what he was doing with his slowed hand. He held his fingers just below his prostate so that we wanted nothing more than to stimulate it, and just when he wanted to break, he swirled his fingers away and played around some more. He continued his pattern, once, twice, three times, each added bit of anticipation making his heart beat faster, blood pump harder, his cock throbbing with need.

The longer he continued, the more his body ached to come, but he wouldn’t give in yet. He was going so long, that even John ached for him to come. His body was showing all the signs, tensing, traces of his voice, little moans and grunts, escaping in each breath.

Finally he gave in, and pressed up onto the tiny organ inside of him. He went stiff and began to groan; groans more along the line of needy whimpering. John sat still and quickly forgot how to breathe, watching Sherlock's hand move again below his arched back. Sherlock rubbed his fingers over his prostate, pumping faster with his other hand, wanting it so desperately, and John-John wanted it more. So he stood up.

He crawled behind Sherlock and kissed his neck. "John?" Sherlock whispered. His touch had brought Sherlock out of his trance. "Go away," he begged.

But instead, John ran a finger down Sherlock's side, "Shhhh" and traced a trail over Sherlock's belly, down his abdomen, and stopped at the base of his cock. He pressed his lips to Sherlock's neck and slid his hand forward, pushing Sherlock's out of the way. Then he tugged.

 

"Oh God, John!" And Sherlock was coming, cock pulsing in John's hand. John inhaled Sherlock's scent and tightened his grip. "You're beautiful."

 

* * *

 

The boys lay down together, catching their breath through bouts of laughter. "I like watching you," commented John. "You're-"

"Just stop." interrupted Sherlock.

"What?"

"Nothing, just, shut up," Sherlock smiled.

John brushed his fingers through Sherlock’s hair looked into his eyes, really looked, deeply, as if he were drowning deep inside the ocean’s currents. All that blue, the specks of gold, the way they searched John and how he could feel them reading every detail.

 "How was it?" asked John. "Was it different with me watching you?"

"Better, yes," admitted Sherlock, averting his eyes out of a little bit of embarassment.

John was understanding."What if I was with you more often?" he asked, and his implications were clear. "What do you say? Want to try it?"

Sherlock stared at him again, deeply, searching, contemplating. After a deep breath, he spoke.

" _Yes._ "

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! ily


End file.
